Fault Lines
by Bluebeard's Wife
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock returns to find John married. Most of the chapters are super-short. That's just how I write. And I should probably note that it has not been Brit-picked at all at all.
1. Chapter 1

"John." Short. Simple. One syllable. Yet it came out thick and painful. He hadn't said the name in months. John was married now. Happily, according to his sources. Sherlock had resisted the urge to check up on John himself. It was too risky. But now the time had come. And the syllable felt funny in his mouth.

"John." How many times would he have to say it like this, to himself, before he got up the courage to face the man? He had played this scene in his mind over and over. Imagined himself standing at the doorway of 221B. It always starts the same.

"John." He says.

What follows is always different. Sometimes it's a punch to the jaw. Other times a hug. Sometimes there are tears. Other times smiles.

John. The man was as simple as his name. Why couldn't Sherlock predict how he was going to react? Why couldn't he muster a carefree attitude?

"John." He could see it all in his mind, the low whistle as John exhaled roughly through his teeth.

"Sherlock!" No more than a whisper. A momentarily furrowed brow. A million thoughts chasing one another across his face. "Y-you're alive." Not a question.

"Obviously." He would walk past him through the door of their old flat and sit down at John's laptop, as if nothing had changed.

Except, no, no, he couldn't do that. John was married now. He no longer lived at 221B Baker St. And what if Mary opened the door?

"Jooohn, someone is here to see you." He didn't know her voice, but he could hear it nonetheless, extending John's name into two sing-song syllables. High pitched and harsh. Or maybe low and seductive. If he was honest, he couldn't know.

"John." Sherlock repeated again and again as he paced in circles around the room. He had stopped feeling angry at himself. Sentiment, a tragic weakness he had been able to avoid all these years. And then John. He would have to accept it.

* * *

John enjoyed married life. It was still new and unusual, and some mornings he woke up not knowing where he was, but overall, he found himself much more content than he had been with Sherlock. Mary had helped him move on. Waking up next to a warm body and the scent of freshly shampooed hair was by far superior to being startled out of sleep by gunshots or lying awake all night trying to tune out the incessant screeching of a violin.

Still, his nightmares had returned. Not every night. Holding Mary seemed to stave them off, but there were nights when he sat up suddenly, his heart beating out of his chest and sweat dripping from his brow. Days following those nights were the hardest. His leg seemed to ache incessantly on those days, and he had taken to using a cane again. It was on one such morning that he arose to Mary calling his name from the foyer. She yelled something about a visitor.

Who visits people unannounced at 8 o'clock in the bloody morning? John yawned, stretching his arms wide. He put on his trousers and the first shirt his fingers clasped upon reaching into the closet. He was in no hurry. The uninvited guest could bloody well wait. One by one, he descended the steps toward the muffled sounds downstairs. Three uneven thuds as he walked. Foot, cane, foot.

He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and froze for a moment halfway down the steps. A deep, even voice rang out from the living room, and John could have sworn it sounded familiar. But no, it couldn't be. He had imagined seeing Sherlock on street corners, on the Tube, and even in their empty chambers at 221B Baker Street. Each time, his heart had skipped a beat, his breath had caught in his throat, and his stomach had lurched. And each time, it had been a mistake. Wishful thinking. Sherlock was dead. Had been dead. Is dead.

He entered the living room a little morose but all the more curious of whose voice could so resemble his, and all the air left his lungs.

"John." Sherlock stood up. That's all he said. "John."


	2. Chapter 2

John just stood there, blanche-faced and slack-jawed with something akin to terror in his eyes. Sherlock had prepared for a reaction, any reaction, but not this dumb, expressionless silence.

"John." He said again and immediately regretted it. He hated to repeat himself.

John gripped his cane so hard that his knuckles had turned white, but he didn't use it to support himself. Still the same old John with the psychosomatic limp. Sherlock took a tentative half step toward him, but John instinctively backed away, fists clenched. But for the cane he would have seemed ready for a physical confrontation.

Sherlock was extremely aware of Mary's presence in the room, her eyes darting annoyingly from one man to the other as though she was following a tennis match. Her ash-colored hair pinned up carefully to the top of her head, her small mouth convulsing ever so slightly with every second. The wedding ring on her long finger was simple but elegant, clean and well taken care of. Sherlock could tell that she didn't normally wake up before John, but today was different. Why was it different? The circles around John's eyes suggested lack of sleep. He had been having nightmares again. He had also gained 7 pounds, however, so married life must have agreed with him. His hair was a tad bit shorter than usual – Mary must have given him a haircut just the day before. The small knick above his ear betrayed the slipping of her amateur hand with the scissors.

John opened his mouth to speak, but sound failed to come out. For a moment Sherlock expected John to howl like a wounded animal.

"I wanted to tell you, John." Sherlock blurted out. "Obviously." He corrected himself. "Your safety was in question." There, that seemed appropriate. Almost an apology, but not really, because what was there to apologize for? Sherlock had gone through far more than John could imagine in the past months, and, if he was honest with himself, he mostly did it for John. So, really, John should be the one apologizing instead of staring at him agape and silent. Human interactions were difficult enough with people who spoke.

* * *

John couldn't believe his eyes. There, in front of him, in his living room, right next to Mary, stood Sherlock Holmes in his tight fitting suit. His scarf and long coat were carefully folded over the armchair to his right. His high cheekbones were framed, as ever, by thick, dark curls. "John." Sherlock had said, and the hoarse sound of his voice sent blood rushing from John's head straight to his groin. It was an odd reaction, but, frankly, John didn't have brainpower to spare to consider this. He wanted to flee, to cry, and laugh, and scream, all at the same time. He wanted to grind his body against Sherlock's and punch him in the face all at once. Most of all, he wanted Mary gone. Mary, with her clear eyes, observing them both carefully. Mary, who had helped him get over Sherlock's death. Mary, whose body had comforted him night after night. Sherlock. Was alive.

A flurry of words suddenly spilled out of John's mouth, and he felt like a spectator watching himself yell uncontrollably at his old best friend.

"You git! You utter bloody arsehole! You wanted to tell me? Do you have any idea what I've been through? Did it even occur to you that perhaps some of us have this thing called FEELINGS? Can you even imagine how it feels to have your best friend die on you? Die in front of you! Covered in blood, on the ground, dead! I saw you! How did you even do it? You were dead! I saw you! I saw you!"

And just as suddenly, he ran out of words, crossed the short distance between them in two long steps, dropping his cane to the ground, and gave Sherlock, whose eyebrows were threatening to fly off his forehead, a bone crushing hug.

* * *

"Tea?" said Mary as she stood up and headed towards the kitchen.

"Yes, please." Sherlock replied, unsure what to do with his hands. He was slightly surprised at the clarity and confidence in his voice. He half expected it to come out a croak. The hug only lasted a moment, but the scent and feel of John's body against his remained. John coughed awkwardly, clearly unnerved by his own behavior.

"Are you done?" Sherlock asked feigning amusement. "Because if you'd like to yell some more…" he let his voice trail off.

The desired effect was immediate. John flushed all the way to the roots of his hair, chuckled, and muttered "Yes. Quite. Done."

"Don't you want to know how I did it?" Sherlock sat down and straightened his trousers. "It was quite brilliant, even for me!"

John's tongue darted briefly out of his mouth. Sherlock became painfully aware of how much he had missed this tiny mannerism.

"Yes, yes, of course. Tell me." John smiled and sat across from Sherlock as Mary brought in a tray with three cups for tea.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock told his story in an even voice, concealing the excitement he felt about finally getting to tell it. John, on the other hand, did not even attempt to restrain himself, as exclamations of amazement and appreciation continuously toppled out of his mouth. As he talked, for the first time in months Sherlock felt a familiar warmth spread through his body, all the way to the tips of his ears and down to his toes. It seemed to radiate directly from John's eyes into his very soul.

Mary listened as well, with rapt attention and a faint smile adorning her lips. She was quite beautiful, and Sherlock naturally noticed the brief glances she stole at John, reveling in his happiness. Try as he might, Sherlock could not find a reason to dislike her. And why was he even trying? John wasn't his. Had never been his. He had never even referred to him as a friend before. His lip curled in a small smile as he remembered John's earlier shouts. "Best friend," he had said.

Sherlock talked for over an hour, making brief pauses at the most suspenseful moments to casually take a sip of his tea. After conveying his impressive plan and its execution in as disdainful a way as possible, he stood up to leave.

"You must come visit us again." Mary insisted. She was positively beaming at him. As he left, Sherlock couldn't help hating her a little.

* * *

_They were a mess of tangled limbs in the darkness. Sweat dripping off their hot bodies as John buried his hands in Sherlock's hair, pushing him downwards, pleading "Sherlock. Sherlock, please."_

"John," Mary's voice cut through the darkness. John sat up in his bed, uncomfortably aware of his erection. "You were having another nightmare." Mary whispered gently, her eyes still closed, and guilt dropped like rocks down John's stomach.

"Yes," he mumbled hoarsely, turning his back to her. "Sorry to wake you."

She curled up around him from behind and gave him a soft kiss on the shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

In the following months, Sherlock noticed a change in John he had not anticipated. His usual look of approval and expectation had turned into a guarded distance. At times, he would see a flicker of the old amazement cross John's eyes, but it was always quickly replaced by seeming indifference.

Sherlock figured it had something to do with emotions. He supposed it would take a while for things to go back to normal. Though at times he suspected it might have something to do with Mary. Other times he wondered if he had imagined the way it had been before.

He had always assumed that they would resume their old intimacy – that's what it was, wasn't it? – and fall back into old habits. John would buy the milk, get annoyed at Sherlock's lack of empathy, and shower him with praise whenever he performed well. But it didn't happen. It couldn't happen. It was embarrassing to think how much he yearned for John's approval. Even for his annoyance. Not to mention having someone to stock the fridge every once in a while.

No matter how interesting a case Lestrade presented him with, he never felt that level of excitement that Moriarty had brought him. Did he miss Moriarty or John? John was right there, why would he miss him? Why should he miss anyone? Alone was what worked. Alone protected him. Always. Why should things be any different now, now that Moriarty was dead and John married?

Mycroft kept checking in on him with that worried look he reserved for the most troubling of times. It was beyond annoying. He just needed a playmate, that's all. John would come around.

And then one day, he walked into his flat at 221B and was hit by a familiar scent. Orange blossoms. Irene Adler. He found her rummaging through the papers on his desk, her sleek silhouette framed against the dark window behind her.

"Boyfriend left you then?" she asked.

"John is not my boyfriend."

"Of course not." She replied with a small smile.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked curtly.

Feigning offense, she shook her head and approached him. "Just passing through." She said. "Thought I'd drop by, see if there's any way," she placed one hand on his chest, "that I can repay you for all your help."

"Not interested." Sherlock walked around her and sat down. He found, somewhat to his surprise, that he was speaking the truth.

In fact, she had already 'repaid' her debt to him. The experience was pleasant and memorable, but he was not looking for a repeat. He had learned all there was to know about her. And, inexplicably, he thought of John.

John, who was at this moment probably shagging Mary. It was Saturday night. Their date night. He had probably taken her to that small Italian place around the corner from their house. Ordered a bottle of wine, as they always did. And then home for the sex. Predictable. Boring. Dull.

He stood up and picked up his violin. Irene watched him with interest, but he paid her no mind.

* * *

"I had a visitor last night," he told John the following day while crouching over another dead body.

"Oh?"

"The husband did it." Sherlock announced and started to leave.

"What? How? Why?" Lestrade ran after him.

"Obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock sighed. He chanced a furtive glance at John, whose brow was furrowed and lips pursed, deep in thought. Not obvious, then.

"She thought she was taking an aspirin. He gave her cyanide." The two men listened carefully as Sherlock elaborated on his reasoning. Step by step. Tiny deduction by tiny deduction. How strenuous it must be to be so oblivious, he thought. But for a brief moment, John looked at him with awe, and Sherlock felt as though someone had put a warm blanket around him.

"What visitor?" John asked as they exited the building.

"Irene."

"Irene? Adler? Irene Adler?" John stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock turned around and gave him a forced half-smile. "She's not dead, she's very much alive, and she came to our, erm," he closed his eyes momentarily for the correction "_my_ flat last night to offer me sex."

John's reaction was subtle, but the body language was unmistakable. His body suddenly very alert, his expression defensive, he was in soldier mode. Why would mention of Irene put him in soldier mode? He must have somehow felt threatened. Threatened by Irene. No, threatened by Irene's offer of sex. Did he fancy Irene? No, that's ridiculous.

And then suddenly it dawned on Sherlock, and his face broke out in a ridiculous grin before he could contain it.

"Brilliant!" he said, feeling as though he had solved a great mystery.

"What is?" John was getting annoyed.

"Let's have a drink!" Sherlock exclaimed and marched into the nearest pub, John following obediently at his heel.


	5. Chapter 5

John should have been heading home, meant to be heading home, but curiosity got the better of him, as usual.

"So is faking your own death like a thing, now? A trend?" John asked as they sat at the bar and Sherlock summoned the bartender.

"Whiskey, neat, make it a double." He said and turned to John. "Irene's stunt is what gave me the idea. Drink?" A command more than a question.

"I'll have whatever is on tap," John told the young woman behind the bar. She gave them a furtive smile before turning to get their drinks.

"Pretty, isn't she?" said Sherlock.

"Ye- what? Since when do you care about women? I thought that wasn't really your area." John snarked.

"It wasn't." said Sherlock with a quick smile.

A pause. "Irene?" John asked, trying not to sound accusatory.

"Good deduction," said Sherlock condescendingly.

It took every ounce of John's being not to get up and leave right then. He knew that Sherlock could see right through him, as always, though up until now he had counted on the detective's willful ignorance of all things sentimental to keep him from figuring it out. For God's sake, from figuring what out? He had had a dream. One dream! Months ago! Why should that have changed everything? It's not like he thought of Sherlock when he was with Mary. John emptied his pint in one long gulp. He _did_ think of Sherlock when he was with Mary. He stared at the pretty bartender, hoping that his thoughts weren't written all over his face.

"John," Sherlock began. "As I previously stated, I consider myself married to my work..."

"I am married to Mary!" John snapped.

He couldn't handle that amused look on Sherlock's face for a moment longer. He dropped some change on the bar and stormed out.

In the back alley, he found himself kicking the large trash bin out of frustration. That was it. No more Sherlock. He would have to quit seeing him. Really, it was a wonder Sherlock hadn't figured it out sooner.

"Figured what out?" Sherlock's voice rang from behind him. John had been muttering to himself. He wanted to punch the smirk off Sherlock's bloody perfect lips. He wanted to bash his face in until the cheekbones were bruised and bleeding. The eyes, the eyes would still stay, piercing and grey, he couldn't change that. Chewing his lip and breathing heavily, he decided that the best course of action was not to give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him act a fool.

"You're the genius, aren't you?" John snarled. "You tell me."

Sherlock took two small steps toward his friend and leaned in, their faces mere inches apart.

"You're jealous of Irene," he whispered.

John blinked, and in the haze of mixed emotions, he realized that the Sherlock he knew would never seek out this situation. Sherlock despised displays of sentiment and appreciated John's company. Why would he seek to humiliate him like this? Why would he be smiling at this information?

The words seemed to slip out of John's mouth before he realized what he was saying, "_You_'re jealous of Mary."

Sherlock looked at his feet for a moment before returning his steady gaze to John's eyes. "Quite a predicament." He said, eyes moving downwards toward John's lips, where the tip of John's tongue was making its usual appearance.

It was impossible to say who made the first move, but in an instant, their lips were pressed together, John's hands buried in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock steadying himself against John's strong shoulders.


	6. Chapter 6

John's lips were softer than Sherlock had imagined. Had he imagined them? Yes, of course he had, night after night, in those brief moments between sleep and waking. The stubble around John's mouth felt coarse on his own soft skin, but somehow it didn't bother him. Quite the opposite. Sure, Irene's lips had been softer, her skin smoother, and her technique flawless, but this time none of that mattered, because he could taste John on his tongue.

He detected a trace of the beer John had downed just moments before and a warmth that could only be John's. Sherlock explored John's mouth with his tongue roughly, almost gnashing their teeth together from the sheer force of his passion. John's groan reverberated inside Sherlock's mouth, and he felt his cock spring to attention. They grabbed at each other desperately, after years of suppressed longing, and Sherlock wanted more, more than this. His hand instinctively grabbed at John's groin, and he found with a jolt of excitement that John was as hard as he was. Pressing John roughly against the wall behind him, Sherlock ground his hips into John's. A frantic moan tore out of his mouth as John grabbed Sherlock's buttocks, pulling him closer. "Oh, Sherlock," John kept muttering between heavy breaths. More, Sherlock needed more. Without thinking, he started unzipping John's trousers, reaching for the bulge underneath.

"Oi!" a harsh voice lodged itself between them. "Take it inside, you perverts!"

And just as suddenly as it started, it all came crashing down. John pushed Sherlock away from him roughly and quickly zipped up his trousers.

"Sorry! So sorry!" he exclaimed at the retreating figure of a man on the corner. He looked at Sherlock, eyes wide, and lips quivering. "I can't… this… this isn't right. I've got to go."

Before Sherlock understood what had happened, John was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Mary Watson was slicing apples when she heard John come in. She melted some butter in the frying pan and threw in the apple slices. Some brown sugar, cinnamon, and oatmeal would make it a delicious snack. She didn't have much of a sweet tooth, but John did. Although she had never been the maternal type, she really enjoyed taking care of him. She considered herself lucky to have found such a good man. And she was sincerely happy that John's best friend had come back into his life.

Sherlock Holmes seemed like a strange man. Certainly not what she had imagined from John's stories. But she trusted John and therefore knew Sherlock to be a good man, too. John hugged her from behind and planted a kiss below her earlobe.

"Interesting case?" she asked.

"It was okay." John replied, taking off his jacket.

John had been less than enthusiastic about most of the cases they solved together in the past few months, but Mary knew Sherlock was good for him by the simple fact that he no longer had nightmares or need of a cane.

"Did you ask Sherlock to come for dinner this weekend?" she demanded for god knows what time. "I know that he is difficult to get along with, but I'd like to know your best friend, John."

"You're my best friend." He croaked, looking at her underneath furrowed brow.

"Are you okay?" she turned off the stove and approached John, who had sat down on the rickety wooden chair behind her. He pulled her closer to him and held her tight.

As Mary ran her fingers through John's hair, he replied "Fine. I'm fine."

He sighed heavily into her bosom before looking up.

"I love you." He whispered.

"I love you, too." She smiled, leaning in for a kiss.

John's forceful exploration of her mouth took her by surprise. They were intimate frequently, but he had never before kissed her this passionately, this desperately. They made love right there, on the chair, which creaked beneath them threateningly but didn't collapse.


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm sorry. –SH"

For three days, John had been ignoring his texts. Even Mary had started to worry.

"Whatever row you two had, it's time to straighten it out," she insisted, shoving John's coat into his hands. "Go. Talk it out." She smiled reassuringly.

John swallowed painfully, but obeyed.

He found himself in front of 221B Baker Street once again, but this time with butterflies in his stomach. It was ridiculous. The whole thing had been ridiculous. He wasn't gay. He loved Sherlock, as a _friend_. Thinking someone dead and then finding them alive would have messed with anyone's head. That was all it was.

He pushed away the nagging thought of the best sex he'd ever had with Mary three days ago. It had nothing to do with Sherlock. He loved Mary. And she loved him. And that was all there was to it. Whatever Sherlock was, John was straight. And married. There would be no repeat of the other day.

He finally mustered up the courage to ring the doorbell, and Mrs. Hudson answered.

"John, dear! I'm so happy you're here. He has been playing that violin day and night for three days now. Hasn't eaten a thing. Won't even let me go in to clean up!"

"That's alright, Mrs. Hudson," John found himself saying. "I'll talk to him."

He climbed the familiar steps to Sherlock's room and walked in without knocking. Sherlock was sitting in an armchair, fingers pressed together in front of his mouth, violin in his lap.

"Had I known that was all it took, I would have apologized days ago." He stated matter-of-factly, raising his piercing eyes to John's.

"I'm only here because Mary insisted." John said. He closed the door behind him and stood in front of Sherlock.

"Oh. Dear, sweet, Mary. How is she, incidentally?" A smile played on his lips, and John had the desperate urge to wipe it off with a right hook to the jaw. Instead, he walked over to the window, and stared vacantly at the street below.

"John." Sherlock sighed. "It is not my intention to interfere in your personal affairs." He stood up and walked towards the window, placing one hand on the small of John's back.

Electricity shot up John's spine, and he turned around, displacing Sherlock's hand, which lingered nevertheless on his hip bone.

They were so close he could smell Sherlock's aftershave. He hadn't come here for this. But his eyes refused to obey his brain and kept staring at Sherlock's prominent Cupid's bow. It was quite a lovely mouth. And so soft.

Sherlock leaned in and planted a light kiss on John's lips. He lingered only for a brief second before pulling away again. John's brain screamed at him in panic, but he didn't back away, couldn't back away. This was going to happen, and he knew it. He might as well resign himself to it. Perhaps once he got it out of his system things would go back to normal. Surely, Sherlock wouldn't be interested in having the same event occur twice.

What about Mary? A small voice in the back of his head kept chanting her name. But when Sherlock pressed his lips against John's again, all the doubts and guilt and shame went out the window. John grabbed Sherlock's hips and pushed him hard into the desk behind him. This was going to happen. Right now.


	9. Chapter 9

***note: this is my first ever sex scene, so please be gentle.***

* * *

Sherlock's arse would certainly bruise from the pressure, but he didn't mind one bit. John's hands explored his neck, his torso, his thighs. John's knee lodged itself between Sherlock's thighs, and he couldn't suppress the guttural moan that escaped from his throat. However much John insisted he was straight, he certainly seemed to know what he was doing.

The moment he sensed hesitation on John's part, Sherlock took matters into his own hands. He pushed back, leading John quickly to the bed, and they fell over, John practically ripping off Sherlock's robe. Boring, how could he have thought sex was boring before? Sherlock's entire body was humming, his heart beating fast. He wanted nothing more than to taste John.

He didn't have to fumble with John's trousers for long. His nimble fingers quickly unhooked the button and pulled down the zipper, and John's hard cock sprang out.

Sherlock made his way down John's body, pulling up his jumper and planting wet kisses on his neck, his chest, his stomach. John's hands were buried in his hair with a low moan of "Sherlock, Sherlock, please." When he asked so nicely, Sherlock had no choice but to obey.

He didn't know much about blow jobs, but he knew enough about human anatomy to know what would feel pleasurable. He flattened his tongue on John's shaft and ran it up the length of his cock before taking the tip in his mouth. John tasted vaguely of sweat, salty and musty, but not unpleasant. Precum was already forming beads on the tip of John's cock, and Sherlock licked it off slowly, pulling his foreskin back slightly.

His mind was clouded with arousal, but Sherlock still remembered the anatomy lessons he had learned long ago. He took the glans in his mouth and performed the up-down motion that he knew would do the trick, absorbing most of the shaft and covering the rest with his fist. John moaned and his hips bucked. This was the correct procedure, then. Up and down, he continued, swirling his tongue all the while, until John groaned loudly, lifted his hips off the bed and released warm fluid in Sherlock's mouth. Success.

Sherlock had tasted himself before – for science, naturally – but John tasted different. Better, somehow. More intimate and more like… well, John. Sherlock swallowed the semen, crawled up John's body, and planted an open-mouthed kiss on him, aroused by the thought of John tasting himself on Sherlock's tongue. This kind of intimacy went beyond anything they had done together before, and Sherlock reveled in it.

After a few moments of hard breathing, John recovered and pinned Sherlock down on the bed. "My turn." He growled.


	10. Chapter 10

John straddled Sherlock and plunged his tongue between Sherlock's lips. Sherlock could feel John's cock on his own with just a thin stretch of fabric separating them. Though this was pleasant, he was about to tell John that he didn't have to reciprocate, that such activities were simply not enough to keep Sherlock's interest unless he was the one performing them, but just then John bit down on his bottom lip. Hard. Equal parts pleasure and pain shot through his body, and Sherlock felt dizzy for a moment. He wanted John to hurt him again.

"You complete arsehole." John muttered, making his way down Sherlock's neck, now licking and suckling, now grazing his teeth over it. He bit down again and lingered for a moment, leaving a love bite. Sherlock couldn't tell which aroused him more – the pain or the knowledge that John was marking his territory. Sherlock's body was John's now. Visibly so. He found himself squirming between John's legs, bucking his hips, begging for more. He hadn't even begged Irene like this.

Every time Sherlock's mind began to wander, John seemed to instinctively know just the right way to bring him back to the present moment. He scratched his nails down Sherlock's sides a bit harder than was absolutely necessary as he slid down to take Sherlock into his mouth. He teased Sherlock for a bit, kissing his inner thigh while tugging on his scrotum. But just as Sherlock started to get bored, wet warmth enveloped his cock and hard fingernails dug deep into his buttocks.

"John" he moaned, closing his eyes to the overwhelming sensation. "Don't stop. Please don't stop!"

When Sherlock finally opened his eyes to look down at John, the sight was almost more than he could bear. John was concentrating furiously, brow furrowed, eyes glittering with lust, mouth full of cock. For a moment, Sherlock's vision went dark, and then his whole body contracted and released in spasm after spasm as John sucked the last bit of fluid from his pulsating cock.

Sherlock would have to add blow jobs to his list of things worth working for. John collapsed next to Sherlock, both of them breathing hard, and for a moment the world was perfect. Sherlock's mind was wonderfully blank.

"We'll have to do this again sometime." he said matter-of-factly.

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. With a groan, John jumped off the bed and hurriedly pulled his trousers back on.

"Sherlock," he exclaimed. "I'm not gay."

Oh this again.

"Don't be an idiot, John." Sherlock muttered, stretching his naked form on the bed. "Homosexuality is a social construct invented in the last century. It doesn't actually _mean_ anything."

Shaking his head, John let out an exasperated sigh and hurried towards the door. Sherlock couldn't see what the hurry was, but he supposed Mary might worry.

"I'll text you tomorrow then?" He called after John's retreating figure.

A momentary pause, then "Yeah, alright." And John was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was quite happy with the next few months, although he was starting to worry about John. As much as he swore that every time they got together would be the last, there was no end in sight for their assignations, and it was beginning to wear on poor John. He clearly disliked being unfaithful to his wife, and Sherlock almost felt guilty.

Almost.

It was another one of those mornings when John had come over to help on a case, and they barely made it past the bedroom door, John dropping to his knees and unzipping Sherlock's fly. They didn't notice – or care – that the door was left ajar or that Mrs. Hudson was just downstairs.

John was a rather quick study, as Sherlock found out, learning to do the most intricate things with his tongue, driving Sherlock to the point of insanity before even taking his cock into his mouth. Sherlock vaguely wondered if John had done research, because that flicking motion at his perineum sent shivers up his spine. When John finally covered Sherlock's glans with his lips, Sherlock was on the verge of orgasm.

"John? Mrs. Hudson said I could…" Mary's voice trailed off, her already pale skin suddenly completely devoid of color. For some reason, the sight of Mary's blue eyes lingering for a moment longer than was necessary on Sherlock's hard cock, combined with John's horrified face, only spurred Sherlock on, and he came undone, spraying whitish fluid on John's bright red cheek.

He smirked at Mary through a post-orgasmic haze, as John lunged upwards, forgetting to pull on his trousers, which pooled awkwardly around his ankles.

"Mary! Mary, I…" John started, wiping his face, but the look of icy hatred she shot at him shut him up instantly.

"Harry is in jail." She spat at him through tight, quivering lips. She paused for a moment as she turned to leave and said "Don't follow me. And don't come home tonight." The door slammed behind her, and John's world turned upside down.

"Are you actually smiling?!" John yelled at Sherlock while pulling up his trousers.

Sherlock couldn't help himself. The whole affair was so ridiculous, and though he understood that it must be painful for John, it was all he could do to grin instead of laughing out loud.

He composed himself and said "You're welcome to stay in your old room until things blow over."

John shot him a look of pure venom and stormed out.

John stayed at Harry's that night, after bailing her out for yet another drunk driving incident. He didn't have the strength to tell her what had just occurred, and he didn't feel obligated to do so, considering her predicament. She knew better than to pry.

He was allowed back home the following day, but Mary treated him with cool detachment. He apologized profusely and repeatedly, but she merely ignored him except to say "pass the salt" or "are you finished with the newspaper?" Still, he supposed it was a good sign that she had allowed him to sleep on the couch and hadn't filed divorce papers just yet.

He had had no contact with Sherlock, and was simultaneously relieved and concerned that Sherlock hadn't so much as sent him a text.

The fourth morning after 'the incident', as John now called that incredibly awkward moment in his head, Mary called after him as he stepped outside the house to head to work.

"Be home by 7," she said.

John stood flabbergasted for a moment, unsure how to react, then turned back from the door and asked, "Why?"

"You said you wanted a chance to make it up to me." She said. "Be home at 7." Her expression was inscrutable.

John cleared his throat, frowned at the wall, and felt something like joy mixed with fear in his belly. "Alright." He said.

Sherlock was playing his violin when he heard her come up the stairs. He was expecting her.  
"Tea?" he asked before turning around to look at her. She wore a grey A-line skirt and a red blouse with triangles cut out at the sleeves so her bare shoulders protruded out of it. Her hair was arranged in a tight bun up on her head, with a few curly tendrils framing her pale face. She wore bright red lipstick to match her blouse. For a moment she reminded him of Irene. That was a first.

"No, thank you. I'm here to talk business." She said.

They both sat down. "You have thought of the perfect punishment for him." Sherlock said looking at her with those piercing eyes. She flushed a little but returned his gaze steadily.

"Yes." She exhaled. "If John is right about you, you already know all about it."  
Sherlock allowed himself a small smile.

"Naturally. I'd still like you tell me the terms of the agreement." He replied.

She nodded and began to talk.


	12. Chapter 12

John had stopped off for a pint after work, mostly to calm his nerves. Mary was a very sweet woman, but he knew intuitively that she was not one you should ever cross. He wanted nothing more than a chance to make things up to her, but was somewhat alarmed by the callous tone in her voice when she said it, not to mention her endurance and resolve when it came to the silent treatment.

And Sherlock… well, he would have to deal with Sherlock later. He certainly didn't want to lose his best friend, but his marriage came first – had to come first. Sherlock would eventually accept that they could be nothing more than friends. He hoped. But what if Mary forbade him to ever see Sherlock again? Was that a sacrifice he was willing to make? He pushed all the nagging thoughts out of his head, not really wanting to know the answer, and unlocked the door to his new house. It was 7 o'clock on the dot – he made sure of that.

Mary was standing in the foyer, wearing her grey skirt and red blouse, with an unfamiliar look in her eyes. Was it fear or excitement? She placed one hand on her hip.

"You will not speak tonight until I allow it." She said. "Understood?"

John gulped and nodded, closing the door behind him.

"You will follow my instruction without question." She continued.

This was not going at all the way John had expected. He nodded again, brow slightly furrowed.

"Go to the bedroom and take off everything but your pants. I will follow shortly."

For a moment, John stood frozen on the spot, unsure if he had misheard her. She raised one eyebrow at him, and he immediately obeyed as though she had cracked a whip.

He ran up the stairs, opened the door to the bedroom and took off his clothes as quickly as his trembling fingers allowed. There was a chair from the kitchen facing the side of the bed. He wondered vaguely how it had gotten there, but just as he folded his trousers and placed them on the chest at the foot of the bed, he heard Mary's stern voice behind him.

"Sit in the chair."

He obeyed, feeling slightly foolish sitting there in his boyish red pants while Mary was still fully dressed. She walked behind him carrying a red scarf and pulled his hands behind his back. John felt the silk snake itself around his wrists. This was not going at all the way he anticipated. He tried to push away all the erotic thoughts that swirled their way into his head, tried to clear his mind and stay focused. This wasn't about him. It was about Mary. Whatever she needed to happen in order to forgive John, he was ready to do it.

Once his hands were securely fastened behind his back, however, he heard another pair of footsteps coming up the stairs, and it was as though someone poured ice cold water down his back. He opened his mouth to speak but Mary already had her finger on her lips. "Nuh-uh-uh. No talking."

When Sherlock entered the room, tall, lanky, and strikingly handsome, John's jaw dropped. He might have spoken at that moment, but no words entered his mind, and his mouth formed silent shapes like a fish struggling for oxygen on land.

Mary smirked, but Sherlock had that look of aloof concentration, examining Mary's form from top to bottom and then back up again.

"Shall we?" he said.

"Please." Mary replied, her voice only shaking a little.

They walked over to the spot between John's chair and the bed, and made a few slightly awkward attempts to touch each other. Finally, Sherlock took charge, brushing a blonde curl behind Mary's face and pressing his lips on hers ever so gently. John let out a low hiss. This was NOT at all going the way he anticipated.

As the kisses between Mary and Sherlock got more and more heated, they started removing each other's clothing and making small noises of satisfaction. John squirmed in his chair, but continued to watch them silently. He understood that this was his punishment. When the two finally stood completely nude before him, he felt his groin stirring with lust. They were both perfectly chiseled, pale creatures, she as fair, soft and familiar as he was dark, gaunt and inscrutable.

Sherlock bit Mary's neck the way John had once bit his, and she moaned lightly, lowering herself slowly to her knees. Sherlock's cock was fully erect, and Mary marveled at it for a moment, before turning to John, smiling, and licking her lips. John's pants were becoming tighter with every moment even as anger and jealousy seethed inside him. When Mary flattened her tongue against Sherlock's shaft, John and Sherlock groaned in unison. John's body betrayed him and a tent formed in his red pants. He was breathing hard and shallow, unsure whether he wanted to separate his two lovers or join them. He knew that this was Mary's idea, and the thought of her planning it with Sherlock behind his back enraged him. On the other hand, knowing that this was something she wanted, something she was willing to do – to teach him a lesson – was the most arousing notion in the world.

Mary took Sherlock's cock in her mouth and started sucking on it, working it like a large popsicle. Sherlock buried his fingers in her hair, messing up her perfectly coiffed bun and guiding her head up and down. Before long, John was squirming in his seat, rocking back and forth in an attempt to produce some friction around his own achingly hard cock.

As she released Sherlock's cock with a funny popping sound, he dragged her upward by the hair, pushing her hard down onto the bed. He knelt in front of her, raising her legs on his shoulders and buried himself in her pussy. All John could see was his dark hair between her legs and the hazy look of pure pleasure in her eyes, which still made every attempt to meet his. He held her gaze as she moaned and mewled and sighed, until she dropped her head back, coming undone with loud screams of "Oh! Sherlock!"

John noted grudgingly that she had never screamed quite that hard for him. He didn't know whether this was part of the revenge, but feared that Sherlock was as good at eating pussy as he was at sucking cock. That man could do everything perfectly. John's cock twitched at the reminder of Sherlock's mouth on it, and he continued to squirm and move his thighs in an attempt to create some friction.

Flipping over, Mary pulled a condom out of the bedside cabinet. She ripped the packet open with her teeth, all the while looking at John, and handed the rubber to Sherlock, who had climbed onto the bed behind her. Sherlock, too, was looking at John, grinning, with Mary's juices practically dripping off his chin. John was utterly consumed with lust and jealousy, before Sherlock had even entered Mary. She was kneeling in front of him, her head buried in the pillow, her arse up in the air, perfectly aligned with Sherlock's hard cock. He teased her a little, making small circles with the head of his cock around her entrance, and she mewled again and groaned impatiently. When Sherlock entered her, John all but came undone. He moaned in unison with Mary this time. The anger and fear and jealousy that had been bubbling inside him for the past half hour dissipated and were replaced by an even greater lust. He panted and bucked his hips in concert with Sherlock's thrusts and tugged at the silk restraining his hands. He knew he was able to wrest his hands free of the restraints, but he also knew that he wasn't allowed to. The thought of Mary controlling him while being fucked senseless by Sherlock was almost enough to bring him over the edge.

Sherlock and Mary collapsed onto the bed, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. Mary turned her head to John, smiling, and teased, "perhaps we should help you with that?"

John nodded fervently. Yes, please god, yes, he thought, as both Sherlock and Mary stood up and knelt in front of him. Mary tugged his pants from under him, nodded at Sherlock and gave John a long, open mouth kiss. He could still taste Sherlock on her breath when another set of lips closed itself around the head of his throbbing cock. It was all it took to bring him over the edge, and he groaned into Mary's mouth, spilling his load into Sherlock's. Now this was brilliant, perfect, fantastic. Mary smiled, her lips still pressed onto John's and whispered, "I think we can make this work. Don't you?"


End file.
